


Just a Dream

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avenger Loki (Marvel), Dreams and Nightmares, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Forbidden Love, Magic, Secrets, Soulmates, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: She liked the idea, the dream that she could fly free with him, be honest with him, but that was all he could ever be, all they could ever be… just a dream.





	Just a Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Latent_Thoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latent_Thoughts/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A cure for nightmares](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486467) by [Latent_Thoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latent_Thoughts/pseuds/Latent_Thoughts). 



Beneath them - their minds and their power - lies a fragile, mortal soul. It was easy to forget, to discard the foundation upon which she was built, but they always remind her. Some were still bitter, ready and willing to fight, but others were relieved, content that their time had come and gone. She spoke with them at every opportunity, seizing moments here and there, because sleep rarely afforded her the chance to engage in fierce debates

     When time permitted, she fell back into old habits, preparing to meditate as she used to do at home. Donning simple clothes, she would train until her muscles complained, then wash her attire by hand before bathing with buckets, using soap that smelled of lavender. Back then, drying the body naturally ran the risk of catching death. If the weather felt particularly foul, not even she was exempt from such fear. Here and now, however, she was safe to sit and let the water evaporate. She could sit for hours, days – even weeks – but it would draw attention here, so it was safer to pass it off in place of sleep, to grab a blanket, curl up on the floor, and drift instead of dream.

     They _were_ only dreams, the manifestation of memories and emotions from her unconscious mind (or, sometimes, those of her brothers) but she could never remember the difference. Inevitably, they would morph, vivid fantasies transforming into terrifying nightmares that had her howling half the night. Fanatical assassins, mythical beasts and creatures from legend; danger at every turn, friends dying every time she closed her eyes, but Death always eluded her or spat her back out in disgust. She did not deserve such mercy.

     Night after night, they tugged at her heartstrings, relentless in their assault. Some days were better than others. Some did not bare contemplating, less she wanted to weaken her already brittle body. It prepared her for the worse Earth had to offer, left her feeling hollow after every fight, but they already thought her broken, beyond repair. There was no need to pretend, no need to claim she was anything other than what she was, which they did not know. Not truly.

     She woke like lightning, body singing with repressed energy, the sound of thunder ringing in her – No, not thunder but knocking, heavy-handed and impatient. She wanted to Shout but all she managed was a wheeze, coughing up blood as her chest heaved and head swam. The door opened of its own accord, admitting an enchanting figure dusted green and gold, his body wound tight with fear and, worse, concern. With him here, her spells had to be simple and subtle, serving as less of a shield and more as a net. If it snapped, only he would know, and her Voice – raw and unruly as it was, without time to train – shattered the mirage she so carefully cultivated.

     Of her many names and faces, she offered them the youngest, but it was incomplete, their pronunciation incompetent, so Urzara became Zara. A lot gets lost in translation, yet he grants it an edge, a mere slither of the power she rightfully possesses, but it is enough to make her shiver.

     He closed the door because the others are, thankfully, still asleep, ignorant of their fears, just as it should be. Much like her, his emotions change at whim, and now they scramble for purchase inside him, desperate to flee, to march straight through the wall and across the hall.

     ‘Zara are you – Odin’s beard, woman! Where are your clothes?’

     She would not speak even if she could, content to let him draw his own conclusions. Sleeping is not a necessity her body requires, though it _does_ lessen her appetite, and reduces the amount of ambient magic she must consume. This fraction of Earth is ladened with magic and, even if it were not, she finds clothes suffocating, and not just when she “sleeps”. Her body burns hotter than most, but they have written it off to magical experimentation. Whether they believe that it is another question, one she has no intention of asking.

     ‘The silent treatment. Of course!’ he sneered, rage and relief vying for dominance.

     It was nothing new. She rarely spoke for anyone, but it never stopped her from listening. If rumours were to be believed (and they stemmed from reliable, well-informed sources) he was summoned to help apprehend her alive, and S.H.I.E.L.D. kept him around because she required an “experienced hand”. If he helped them reclaimed the Sceptre while carrying out his sentence on Earth, then all the better. So long as they believed that this “alien energy” was responsible for her… current state, she would bite her tongue and endure until she found an alternative means of transportation. Interdimensional teleportation was risky, at best, and her first (and last) attempt to open a portal almost destroyed the Earth. Not that they knew that, of course.

     ‘Are you decent? Can I turn around?’

     She curled herself into a sitting position on the floor, draping one of the wrinkled sheets around her as an afterthought. There was nothing “wrong” with her body, savour its lack of appeal, but scars were not attractive here. Neither were disabilities, such as those imposed by her blind-white eyes. If anything, their exposure to the Elder Scrolls only improved her vision, but that was a secret imparted to precious few, all of which were now deceased. With a huff of affirmation, Urzara awaited his verdict. If he was going to be a problem…

     ‘I suppose it is a start,’ he mumbled.

     As his temper calmed, so did his body temperature, though hers did something similar when she conjured ice. From the sound of it, he dropped several pieces into a tall glass. His feet were almost silent, his steps calculated with great effect, and he approached her slowly, as one might a startled or injured animal. She loathed his condescending arrogance, but so long as he underestimated her, they were safe. He stooped to her height and asked for her hands, which she gave without hesitation – if he intended to hurt her, she would know – and he closed them around the glass. She waited until he turned away before pouring it over her head – Gods was it _cold_ – but she saved herself a sip and an ice cube, enough to rinse her mouth and sooth her throat.

     ‘Gods damn you, woman! Do you enjoy tormenting me? Do you – JARVIS?’

     ‘Yes, sir?’

     ‘Her temperature.’

     ‘It is within the usual parameters, just eclipsing one-hundred-and-four –’

     He rounded on her, his insides squirming, and demanded she showered because he was not, under any circumstances, wasting any more magic on her. It was a condition of his sentencing, a restriction of his magical reserves which were, understandably, larger than hers, but only if one counted “traditional” magic. It was a given that she would start stemming now, a reaction to the magically saturated water, and the imminent presence of his magic. Having been starved for so long, it was to be expected, especially since she had not anticipated his arrival. Ignoring him would do nothing but worsen an already precarious situation, and she did not care for JARVIS attention. His voice was automated, mechanical, devoid of all life and emotion, leaving nothing but words for her to analyse. It was maddening at the best of times.

     One highlight of returning to Earth was indoor plumbing. This, she had missed, and she knew it showed, but after being kept in basements and laboratories, no one gave her a second glance. For this, she is grateful. The water is cold, supercooled thanks to JARVIS (he has his uses, at least) and by the time she steps out, her body was starting to shiver. The towels are real cotton, not synthetic, and the green silk shift (pale olive, according to Natasha, because it “compliments your complexion”) is also authentic. It is sleeveless, and only falls half-way down her thighs (when she sits) but the robe (they are called “dressing gowns” now) just skims her knees and covers her arms. Fortunately, he did not criticise her choice, but he did insist she sit, and offered her a second glass filled with ice. The sensation of holding it between her hands is… It is indescribable. He cannot know how much it means to her.

     ‘How can you stand those… those _carpets_?’ he frowned.

     She might not be able to see his face, but she can certainly hear his disapproval, though whether it regards her actual carpets or the thick wool and fur blankets she favours, she cannot say. They remind her of home, and a little familiarity goes a long way. Some of them are draped over the seats, such as the armchair he stole – which he knows she favours – and the sofa she currently resides on. The layout of her room is easy enough to remember, so the days of brushing fingertips over furniture are long gone.

     ‘Now, to business,’ he declared, with all the finality one could expect of a prince. She had met quite a few to compare him to.

     ‘Business?’ she whispered, seething that the word slipped out… somehow.

     ‘Yes, business. Mine… and yours. This simply cannot continue.’

     She waited because he liked to speak, and any sound out of her is looked upon like a gift. True to form, he continued, aware she had no desire to continue their conversation.

     ‘You roar in your sleep, Zara.’

     She put the glass down, and pushed it away, before curling her fingers into the centre of her lap. Until he made a move, she would not react. His sigh is one of disappointment and pain, with kernels of anger and concern clawing at the edges. They are like the smallest of splinters, irritating in their inconvenience.

     ‘If you will not talk to me, then talk to Natasha. Nightmares are not uncommon, and I would let the matter rest were you not putting yourself at risk.’

     Her throat still hurt, but she swallowed and spoke. ‘I can handle it.’

     Beyond body language, assorted sounds and one-syllable responses, she does not talk or interact with anyone. Hearing a complete sentence is like seeing snow fall in July. It _has_ happened, though not in recent history, and certainly not here, in New York. In truth, she would rather remain silent, but he, for once, spoke softly, voice devoid of sarcasm and contempt. There was nothing but sincere concern in his words, and pain deeper than the anger he hurled at the world.

     ‘Roaring,’ he repeated, his response late beyond the realms of fashion. ‘You roared yourself hoarse, and bit clean through your lip, trying to stifle your screams.’

     Someone once told her that poetry came from the heart, that the words were an expression of the soul. In Loki’s case, it felt true, and that… That could be a problem. He moved to sit beside her, asking for permission with his proximity, and Urzara nodded because it had been so _long_ , so very, very, _very_ long since she last felt the touch of another’s magic. He tilted her head, ran the pad of his thumb across her lip, and such a simple act left her shivering and shaking, gasping for breath. He is a proficient mage, even if his talent for healing comes second to other ventures. She could have very well found his touch repulsive, even if his intent was sincere because such responses were beyond the body’s control. So long as the recipient trusts the caster, their magic will be well received, regardless of prior experiences, though forming such a bond was… uncommon. Rarer still was for someone to find such contact familial, or intimate, olds souls recognising one another on some distant plane of existence, traversing countless worlds over countless lifetimes in search of them.

     It should not feel this way, but it does. _He_ does. His soul calls to hers in ways she cannot define or describe or ignore, but even if her brothers were not sceptical of his presence, she could never respond. Her existence here has consisted of nothing but half-truths, white lies and cold silence. What she omits she omits for good reason. He lives within Yggdrasil and knows that other worlds – broken branches, hollow trunks and twisted roots – exist beyond their reach. To reveal that there is an entire _forest_ out there, undiscovered… The thought did not bear contemplating.

     He shushed her shivers, whispered that he was here, that he will _always_ be here, as he combed his fingers through her tangled hair. For a moment, she felt mortal, but even as his words rung true, Urzara knew that he _meant_ his lies and spoke them as if they were truths. It is an easy trap to fall into, especially for those untrained in the arcane arts, because there are no defences against such devastating attacks. He told her that the terror will pass, even though the fear will linger, and that she will win the war because she has the strength to face and fight each battle. It is so easy to believe, to think that he cares for the broken soul he was _ordered_ to salvage.

     She pronounces his name wrong – _lok-eye_ not _low-key_ – but he did not berate her for it then, not when his soul must know what she wanted to do. _Lok-eye_ … _Lok-i_ meaning “my sky”. She liked the idea, the dream that she could fly free with him, be honest with him, but that was all he could ever be, all they could ever be… just a dream.

     “Loki,” she whispered because, even though her brothers were strong, she was weak. There is no word for “love” in their language. Her heart berates the loss. “Have… Have you ever wanted to… to do things you really sh-shouldn’t?”

     “Every day,” was his earnest reply, complete with a smile, an honest-to-Gods smile that felt as if it was reserved just for _her_ , but Urzara knew better.

     That was why she rested her head against his chest and permitted her hand to hover atop his shoulder. It was not enough and too much at once, but his presence was reassuring in ways only he might understand. His heartbeat fills the silence, but talking exhausts her as “sleeping” never can, and she _does_ sleep because come dawn, she finds herself well-rested… and alone. Given the warmth of the sofa, she must have fallen asleep against him, but he slipped free, somehow, leaving his robe behind for her told to hold. Some of the engraved stitching branded itself across her flesh, and part of her does not want it to disappear. The feel of him lingers in the fabric – the _scent_ of old books, the _sound_ of his magic, the _touch_ of his chilling embrace – and her soul longs to reach for his, but she must deny herself the pleasure. Her brothers are counting on her, and every world she has ever visited – even those that never quite felt like home – are counting on her. She will not disappoint them, but first, she must wash and return the robe. Keeping it is a death sentence waiting to be written. Returning it, she knows, will be a fate far worse than death.


End file.
